Waiting For Spring
by Ragged Claws
Summary: A much older Patricia Jenner sees a psychiatrist. A one shot.


Wisps of smoke curled around the old woman, making her seem mysterious in the dimly lit room.

"Are you sure you don't mind if I smoke?" she asked, taking another puff of her cigarette.

"No, Ms. Jenner," the doctor replied, sitting down into his chair, "Now, before we begin today, why don't you tell me how many psychiatrists you have visited in your life?"

"You're the thirty-seventh, and you know that," she answered quietly, brushing a strand of her silvered hair away from her dark eyes, "and why do you persist on asking the same questions at the beginning of every one of our sessions?"

"And what have all of them told you?" he continued nevertheless, ignoring her last remark.

She sighed. Took a deep breath and said abruptly, "That none of it ever happened. That I imagined it all – fabricated it to hide the truth. That I can't accept the fact that my brother ran away – that he abandoned my family and I. That he didn't...didn't want to be found."

The doctor threaded his hands together, and leaning forward, sat them back onto his desk.

"But you don't believe that, do you, Ms. Jenner?"

She seemed to have slipped into a state of oblivion. Her face, where traces of beauty still remained, seemed distant. Her lips were pursed tightly and her eyes were glazed over. She was far away: reminiscing.

"How many visits have you had with me, Ms. Jenner?" he asked, raising his voice a little to bring her back to reality.

"You don't know how I've…" she began. But he cut her off.

"Just answer the question, please?"

"Forty-nine," She said stiffly, her face blank.

"Ms. Jenner, I know you've suffered. I know what your brother did was terrible. But you don't have to blame yourself for it. You don't have to say that you weren't strong enough."

He took his glasses off carefully, and gave them a wipe with a tissue he pulled out of a box on his desk.

"He was the one who wasn't strong enough, if anything. But really, _nobody_ is to blame." He finished.

She sat stiffly; her hands clenched together in her lap tightly, her eyes downcast.

"How have things been lately – since your last visit?" the doctor asked, but she changed the subject back.

"No matter how many times I tell you what happened, you don't believe me. Nobody believes me anymore. And those who did are long dead and gone."

He nodded sympathetically.

"I know it's hard to believe, but it's – it's what happened," her voice grew weak, "and I can't – I can't change it."

He offered the box of tissues to her, but she hit it away roughly.

"I don't care what you do to me. I'm never going to let you tell me what to believe. It's an insult to Darry."

There was silence for a while.

"How old are you, Ms. Jenner?"

"You know very well that I'm sixty-six this year." She answered sharply.

"And how many years has it been since you lost Darry?"

"Forty-six this Spring, and it's almost…it's almost Spring."

"Yes it is. And don't you want to move on now, after so many years of pain, and anger, and frustration, and questioning yourself?"

She finished her cigarette, squashed it in the silver ashtray on the doctor's desk, and that's when the idea hit her.

"You know, Doctor?"

"Hmmm?"

"I was thinking…It has been a long time, and, you're right – I want to move on."

The doctor smiled.

"Why, that's excellent, Ms. Jenner!"

She smiled back.

"I think maybe if I confront my fears – you know – go back to Nebraska where…where it happened…maybe I might…I might, finally…accept it."

He raised his eyebrows suspiciously.

"This is certainly a sudden change of heart."

Her smile faded, and she said as convincingly as she could,

"I've always known what really happened, because I remember, but…I think…" she trailed off.

"It's complicated, isn't it?" he said gently.

She nodded silently.

"These things…always are…But yes, I'm sure that we can arrange a little, 'field trip'."

She smiled once more, this time, wider.

"Thank you for today, Ms. Jenner. I think we've made a breakthrough." He murmured, still sounding a little sceptical.

He got out of his chair, pushed it under his desk, and then strode over to the door to hold it open for the old woman.

"Goodbye now, Ms. Jenner. I'll see you next week," he farewelled warmly.

"Goodbye, Doctor," the old woman answered as he closed the door behind her.

For a moment she fumbled at her purse, reaching into a packet of cigarettes inside of it and pulling out a fresh one. She lit it, and took a chuff.

He'd believe her if saw _it_, wouldn't he? And she knew that the bastard of a thing would never touch her, as it hadn't wanted anything from her in the first place. So why would it want anything now – especially when she was in the state she was presently – elderly, lungs full of ash and tar as she'd taken up chain-smoking after it had happened, years of pain and anguish that you glimpsed in her eyes, that lingered in her voice, her words.

And she wanted someone to pay – why couldn't she be just as cruel as the world had been to her?

Yes – she simply could not wait until Spring.


End file.
